The Man of the Forest by Zane Grey (read me like a book txt) 📗

“Wal, I ain't stuck on the job,” replied Wilson. “But I'll tackle it, seein' you-all got cold feet.”

With plate and cup be reluctantly approached the little lean-to, and, kneeling, he put his head inside. The girl, quick-eyed and alert, had evidently seen him coming. At any rate, she greeted him with a cautious smile.

“Jim, was I pretty good?” she whispered.

“Miss, you was shore the finest aktress I ever seen,” he responded, in a low voice. “But you dam near overdid it. I'm goin' to tell Anson you're sick now—poisoned or somethin' awful. Then we'll wait till night. Dale shore will help us out.”

“Oh, I'm on fire to get away,” she exclaimed. “Jim Wilson, I'll never forget you as long as I live!”

He seemed greatly embarrassed.

“Wal—miss—I—I'll do my best licks. But I ain't gamblin' none on results. Be patient. Keep your nerve. Don't get scared. I reckon between me an' Dale you'll git away from heah.”

Withdrawing his head, he got up and returned to the camp-fire, where Anson was waiting curiously.

“I left the grub. But she didn't touch it. Seems sort of sick to me, like she was poisoned.”

“Jim, didn't I hear you talkin'?” asked Anson.

“Shore. I was coaxin' her. Reckon she ain't so ranty as she was. But she shore is doubled-up, an' sickish.”

“Wuss an' wuss all the time,” said Anson, between his teeth. “An' where's Burt? Hyar it's noon an' he left early. He never was no woodsman. He's got lost.”

“Either thet or he's run into somethin',” replied Wilson, thoughtfully.

Anson doubled a huge fist and cursed deep under his breath—the reaction of a man whose accomplices and partners and tools, whose luck, whose faith in himself had failed him. He flung himself down under a tree, and after a while, when his rigidity relaxed, he probably fell asleep. Moze and Shady kept at their game. Wilson paced to and fro, sat down, and then got up to bunch the horses again, walked around the dell and back to camp. The afternoon hours were long. And they were waiting hours. The act of waiting appeared on the surface of all these outlaws did.

At sunset the golden gloom of the glen changed to a vague, thick twilight. Anson rolled over, yawned, and sat up. As he glanced around, evidently seeking Burt, his face clouded.

“No sign of Burt?” he asked.

Wilson expressed a mild surprise. “Wal, Snake, you ain't expectin' Burt now?”

“I am, course I am. Why not?” demanded Anson. “Any other time we'd look fer him, wouldn't we?”

“Any other time ain't now.... Burt won't ever come back!” Wilson spoke it with a positive finality.

“A-huh! Some more of them queer feelin's of yourn—operatin' again, hey? Them onnatural kind thet you can't explain, hey?”

Anson's queries were bitter and rancorous.

“Yes. An', Snake, I tax you with this heah. Ain't any of them queer feelin's operatin' in you?”

“No!” rolled out the leader, savagely. But his passionate denial was a proof that he lied. From the moment of this outburst, which was a fierce clinging to the old, brave instincts of his character, unless a sudden change marked the nature of his fortunes, he would rapidly deteriorate to the breaking-point. And in such brutal, unrestrained natures as his this breaking-point meant a desperate stand, a desperate forcing of events, a desperate accumulation of passions that stalked out to deal and to meet disaster and blood and death.

Wilson put a little wood on the fire and he munched a biscuit. No one asked him to cook. No one made any effort to do so. One by one each man went to the pack to get some bread and meat.

Then they waited as men who knew not what they waited for, yet hated and dreaded it.

Twilight in that glen was naturally a strange, veiled condition of the atmosphere. It was a merging of shade and light, which two seemed to make gray, creeping shadows.

Suddenly a snorting and stamping of the horses startled the men.

“Somethin' scared the hosses,” said Anson, rising. “Come on.”

Moze accompanied him, and they disappeared in the gloom. More trampling of hoofs was heard, then a cracking of brush, and the deep voices of men. At length the two outlaws returned, leading three of the horses, which they haltered in the open glen.

The camp-fire light showed Anson's face dark and serious.

“Jim, them hosses are wilder 'n deer,” he said. “I ketched mine, an' Moze got two. But the rest worked away whenever we come close. Some varmint has scared them bad. We all gotta rustle out thar quick.”

Wilson rose, shaking his head doubtfully. And at that moment the quiet air split to a piercing, horrid neigh of a terrified horse. Prolonged to a screech, it broke and ended. Then followed snorts of fright, pound and crack and thud of hoofs, and crash of brush; then a gathering thumping, crashing roar, split by piercing sounds.

“Stampede!” yelled Anson, and he ran to hold his own horse, which he had haltered right in camp. It was big and wild-looking, and now reared and plunged to break away. Anson just got there in time, and then it took all his weight to pull the horse down. Not until the crashing, snorting, pounding melee had subsided and died away over the rim of the glen did Anson dare leave his frightened favorite.

“Gone! Our horses are gone! Did you hear 'em?” he exclaimed, blankly.

“Shore. They're a cut-up an' crippled bunch by now,” replied Wilson.

“Boss, we'll never git 'ern back, not 'n a hundred years,” declared Moze.

“Thet settles us, Snake Anson,” stridently added Shady Jones. “Them hosses are gone! You can kiss your hand to them.... They wasn't hobbled. They hed an orful scare. They split on thet stampede an' they'll never git together. ... See what you've fetched us to!”

Under the force of this triple arraignment the outlaw leader dropped to his seat, staggered and silenced. In fact, silence fell upon all the men and likewise enfolded the glen.

Night set in jet-black, dismal, lonely, without a star. Faintly the wind moaned. Weirdly the brook babbled through its strange chords to end in the sound that was hollow. It was never the same—a rumble, as if faint, distant thunder—a deep gurgle, as of water drawn into a vortex—a rolling, as of a stone in swift current. The black cliff was invisible, yet seemed to have many weird faces; the giant pines loomed spectral; the shadows were thick, moving, changing. Flickering lights from the camp-fire circled the huge trunks and played fantastically over the brooding men. This camp-fire did not burn or blaze cheerily; it had no glow, no sputter, no white heart, no red, living embers.